


tenderness flooded his voice

by dangerbears



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 18:20:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dangerbears/pseuds/dangerbears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. things collapse in on louis, but harry's there. harry's always there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tenderness flooded his voice

_Well life has some risks. Love is one. Terrible risks.  
[...]  
Fate's my bait and bait's my fate.   
_On a June evening. _  
Here's my advice,  
hold._

_Hold beauty._

anne carson, _the beauty of the husband_

 

*

 

Some people see the end coming. Some people tell their stories – most people tell their stories, but some people tell their stories hungrily, grasping for something. Maybe not pity. People don't always need pity or sympathy. Most people just need understanding. Most people need someone to listen, to make them feel less alone. 

Some people tell their stories desperately, drunkenly, breathlessly. 

Louis tries to summon up some desperation. He closes his eyes and searches for urgency, for anything. 

It's summer and it's cold. Except it's not cold, is it? It's hot. It's hot and it's summer and it's all so, so ordinary. The sky is blue and the grass is soft, green, damp from the retreating morning. 

Some people see the end coming. Some people sense their countdown the way Louis's mum could sense the oven timer. She would be sitting in front of the television, braiding Fizzy's hair, and she would suddenly look over to Louis and say, "Hold this, there's a love," and hop up seconds before the oven beeped. Time for tea. 

Some people begin pulling away, sensing the oven timer. Some people finish up the braids and leave their wives, girlfriends, boyfriends holding the end of their own hair, wondering how to tie it up, how to make it stay. 

Louis didn't even know the oven timer was on. Louis was caught, holding onto an unraveling braid.

 

*

 

They met in a Biology lab. It was a Friday, it was early October, and it was Biology. 

Louis was sitting in the corner, absently grading last week's quizzes. The other lab assistant, Niall, was leading that Friday. They alternated Fridays. Louis was wearing a grey jumper with holes in the sleeves and blue jeans that were just the right side of too small. It was ten in the morning, and Louis wished he was still in bed. 

He remembers it all, actually, something that always made Robbie laugh, shocked and elated. 

A tall, blond boy had approached him during the workshop time, hovering, until Louis realised. 

"What?" Louis had said, until remembering himself. "I mean, um. Yes? How can I, um?

The boy had laughed, and Louis distantly remembered his name as something like Roland or something. He said, "Hey, sorry, I'm just like, really fuckin' awful at biology, is the thing." He spoke in a broad American accent. "And, like, I was wondering if I could, uh, solicit you for favours?" 

Which, like, Louis never let him forget that one. He definitely must have choked on his tongue, staring up at this boy blankly. "Um?" Louis said. 

"I'm Robbie," Roland laughed. "Do you think that'd be, like, possible at all? To get some tutoring?" 

And Louis had stared a little bit more, just for good measure, before agreeing, because what the fuck better did he have to do than help a cute boy with his biology homework?

They ended up meeting at a cafe on campus. Louis had his thumbs poked through the holes in his jumper and his lips were bitten raw and Robbie was sprawled out, all confidence and quiet laughs. He stole Louis's glasses halfway through the lab writeup and then he walked Louis back to his dorm – "Who knows what's lurking out here, right?" – and finally, in the burnt yellow light of the streetlamp, he asked Louis out for dinner. 

Years later, Robbie would tug a little on Louis's wrist, smile down at him, and say, "Hey, remember when we met?" 

And Louis would grin back and say, "The only reason you remember is because I remember, jerk."

Louis always remembered. That's the fucking problem. He just can't bloody forget.

 

*

 

"Dad?"

Louis opens his eyes and blinks rapidly as a shadow falls across his face. He's laying on his back in the middle of the front garden. 

"Dad?" the little voice says again. 

He pulls himself up to rest on his elbow and tugs the little boy down to sprawl across his lap. "What's up, kiddo?" he says, tickling Sam's belly underneath the ridiculous Harley Davidson shirt Robbie had bought him for his birthday. 

"Sofie won't let me on her bike," Sammy whines, pushing his lower lip out. "And you're being _boring_. Come play with us."

Louis chuckles. "Okay, buddy, I can do that. What're we playing? Hey, do you think we should ring up Uncle Zayn and Uncle Harry and see if they wanna come to the park?" 

Sammy's face brightens immediately. "Would Uncle Harry play football with me?" 

"Hmm," Louis says, pretending to think about it. "You know, I bet he just would! And you know what else?" 

Sammy's eyes widen and he shakes his head.

Louis continues, "I bet, if you're really, really good, and you play really nicely with your sister, Uncle Zayn would buy you two some ice cream."

" _Ice cream_ ," Sammy whispers reverently, before shrieking, "SOFIE, SOFIE, SOFIE!"

Louis winces, reaching out to grab him as he makes to dash off to his sister. "I know we're not inside, buddy, and I know you're really good at your inside and outside voices, but let's remember no screaming, yeah? Remember the only times it's okay to scream?" 

"Yes, Dad," Sam says dutifully.

"And what are they?" 

Sam recites, "If someone tries to steal me or Sofie or if someone touches me in a bad place or if I get hurt."

"Good job," Louis says, ruffling his hand through Sam's hair. "Alright, go see if your sister wants to go to the park, and I'll call up Uncle Zayn." 

"And Uncle Harry!" 

Louis grins. "And Uncle Harry." 

The little boy trots off on his short little legs, upper body tilted forward as if he's stretching for his speed. He's already getting taller, lankier. Already looking so much like Robbie. Louis sighs, dwells momentarily, and shakes himself into motion, digging his phone from his pocket. 

"Yeah?" comes Harry's gravelly voice across the line. "Lou?" 

Louis laughs a little and makes his way to sit on the stoop, watching his son chase after his daughter, riding her bike like she was born for it. The street is quiet and the sun is high and everything smells like freshly mown grass. It's idyllic. It'd be idyllic in another life, he thinks. "Hey, H. Am I interrupting something?"

There's a rustling that sounds remarkably like bedsheets, and then some muffled whispers, one voice definitely Harry's and the other definitely female. A month ago, Louis would be laughing. Now, he holds in his sigh and his self-pity, because fuck that. The world didn't end, no matter how much it feels like it did. 

"No, no, never," Harry's response comes, a few seconds past believable. "How can I be of service?" 

"Well," Louis says, suddenly feeling like a fucking charity case, "it's just, like. I've got two kids who are dying to see their Uncle Harry and quite possibly kick his arse at the football." 

Harry laughs over the line, deep and warm. "Oh, have you? And I suppose their father is just dying to see their Uncle Harry humiliated, isn't he?"

"Got it in one, mate," Louis says. "Are you interested in going to the park with us? Seriously, if it's a bad time or you're not up for it, don't worry about it. We'll see you next week or whatever." 

"Lou," Harry says, chiding. "I'm always up for it."

Louis snorts, out of habit. "I'm sure you are." 

Sighing, Harry says, "Let me just, uh, get myself together a bit and I'll meet you there in a half hour. Sound good?" 

"Sounds good. I'm gonna call Zayn, too." Louis pauses for a moment. "And, H?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Thanks, man, y'know. I know you see enough kids, like, every day. Thank you." 

Harry's quiet, and Louis strains to hear his breathing over the line, until, "Louis, hey. Anything you need. You know? Anything. I'd do anything for you. For your family." He's quiet again and Louis's throat feels tight. And then, he continues, louder, sillier, "Besides, what the fuck am I supposed to do with three months off? I gotta keep in form for the school year!"

Louis grins up into the sunshine. "Okay, well. Let me know if it gets too much, yeah? I'll back off whenever you need."

"Never too much Tommo in my life, you know that. Okay, mate, see you in a half hour. Love you." 

"Love you too," Louis says, and rings off. Sam's standing in the middle of the cul-de-sac, stomping his foot, red in the face, while Sofie bikes around him in circles. Louis sighs, sends a quick text to Zayn – _park? half hr? luuuuv xxxx_ – and jogs out, catching Sofie's handlebars on the fly. 

"Alright, guys," he says, holding up a hand to stop Sammy's inevitable tirade, "we are going to the park. Grab whatever you want to bring! Sam, Harry said he'd love to play some footie with you, so be sure to bring your football. And Sof, if you wanna draw, I'm sure Uncle Zayn would love to do that, too." 

Sofie pulls a face, seven going on seventeen. "I wanna play footie with Uncle Harry too!"

Louis grins. "Alright. How about you and me against Harry and Sammy?"

" _No_ , Dad!" Sam yells. " _I_ wanna be on your team!"

Sofie immediately shoots back, "No! Uncle Harry _sucks_ at football! I'm on Dad's team! He said it first!" 

Sam's lower lip quivers. "But I wanna _win_ ," he wails.

Louis shakes his head. "Guys, c'mon. No fighting. And, Sof, you know we don't say that word. We can all trade teams, okay? Just like real football." 

A huge smile breaks out on Sam's face. "I call being Van Persie!" 

Sofie opens her mouth to argue, but Louis sends her a stern look and she wilts. He waits for a moment to make sure there's no more retorts, and then says, "Okay! Great! Grab your stuff, use the potty, and meet me on the front steps in five minutes!" 

They rush off, shoving playfully at each other as they clatter into the house and Louis watches them go. His phone vibrates in his pocket with Zayn's reply. 

_yaaaaa cant wait love u all x_

Thank god for his friends, honestly. Thank god. 

 

*

 

Harry's waiting for them when they arrive, leant up against a tree, one leg folded over the other, head bent over his phone. Louis squeezes Sammy and Sofie's hands, pulling them to a stop and putting a finger over his lips. They gaze up at him, wide-eyed, and he nods to Harry, who's still unaware, and gives them a wink. 

Sofie gets it immediately, sharp little face turning devious in an instant. Louis has to hold in his laugh with her, sometimes, because she's so, so much like him and it scares him, sometimes, that his little girl is gonna grow up in this world. She reaches out and takes Sammy's hand from Louis's and whispers something into his ear. Sammy's face lights up, mouth dropping open around a little giggle. Louis stands back and watches. 

Sofie drags Sammy after her, their four little feet thundering on the cement pathway, and Louis glances at Harry. The only sign that he knows what's happening is the small curl of his mouth, pushing his dimples into his cheeks. Louis laughs to himself. 

There's a touch on his hip just as Sofie and Sam wrap their little limbs around Harry's waist. Harry shrieks and falls, exaggerated and wonderful, just the way his is about everything, and he immediately starts tickling both of them, rolling around on the grass in a way that means at least an hour of scrubbing at grass stains for Louis. He can't bring himself to care. 

Turning into the touch, Louis comes face to face with Zayn, who looks like he tried as hard as he could to become a glossy print ad. The collar of his leather jacket is turned up to frame his jaw and his RayBans are framing his cheekbones and his lips are pursed around the unlit cigarette in his mouth. Louis shakes his head, smiling.

"My favourite little model," he coos, feigning a swoon. 

Zayn's only expression of annoyance comes from a quirked eyebrow, but he reaches up and slides the cigarette behind his ear and pushes his sunglasses into his hair. "How you doing, Lou?" he asks. 

The ubiquitous, million dollar fuckin' question. How are you doing. _How_ are you doing. How _are_ you doing. How are _you_ doing. How are you _doing_. So many inflections, so many answers, and Louis always sticks with the same. 

"Oh, you know," Louis says. He watches Harry, still rolling around with the kids, and continues, "I think, you know, they're getting used to it. Stopped asking so much."

Zayn hums a little, turning to watch just as Harry tosses Sammy into the air before catching him. "Good," he murmurs, "'s good. But, like. How are _you_?"

Louis laughs dryly. "I try not to think about it." 

And he can say that to Zayn, because Zayn just nods. His face is tight and Louis knows he wants to say something, something placating or something sympathetic or something tender, but he knows not to. He just nods and his hand twitches at his side like he wants to hold onto Louis, but he won't do that either. He'll just stand, silent and there, always waiting until Louis is ready. 

They make their way over to the pile of bodies in the grass and Louis can't help smiling down at them. Sofie is sitting across Harry's middle, looking victorious, and Sammy is astride his chest, dropping grass into Harry's hair. 

"Got him, then?" Louis says. 

Harry groans, pushing himself up so Sam and Sofie topple over. "They just keep getting bigger, mate."

"Don't I know it." 

Sam runs over to Louis and grabs his football, holding it up to Harry. "Football time!" he yells. 

Laughing, Harry reaches over and ruffles Sammy's hair, saying, "Yeah, mate, sounds good. Let me just say hi to your dad real quick, yeah? Why don't you take my shoes and go set up a goal, okay?" 

Sam nods eagerly and grabs Harry's shoes as he toes them off and does some math in his head, brows furrowed. "But we need two more..." he says. 

Harry, Sammy, and Sofie all turn their heads to Louis. He sighs. "I swear..." he mutters and toes off his own shoes. Sofie grabs them and they run off into the field.

"Lou," Harry says, voice warm around his name, every time. He opens up his arms and Louis glances at Zayn, rolling his eyes, because Harry's always been the sap. Always been so giving with his emotions, his love. Zayn smirks back, shaking his head slightly, and Louis smiles. He steps into Harry's arms and tries not to bury his face in Harry's neck. He fails. 

"Hey," Harry whispers to him, big hands running up and down Louis's back. "Hey hey hey, my little Lou." 

Louis snorts and whacks him on the hip. "Such a twat," he grumbles. 

Harry pulls back a little, grinning, and boops Louis on the nose. "Yet you can't stay away." 

The sun is bouncing off Harry's hair, skin, personality, and Louis smiles up at him. "You keep my kids entertained."

Harry laughs and sticks his tongue out at Louis before scampering off to where Sofie and Sammy are waiting. "Let's warm up before your old man gets on his big boy pants and beats us!" he yells. The kids cheer and Sammy winds up to kick the football to Harry. He promptly misses, falling right back onto his bum. Sofie howls with laughter and Sammy pouts up at Harry. 

Louis turns to Zayn and says, "I'll be okay, you know? I'll be okay." 

Zayn smiles, but the corners are sad. "I know." 

 

*

 

From everything Louis had understood from his somewhat limited experience with weddings, he expected pretty much everything to go wrong. He was completely insufferable, he knows it now and he knew it then. Panicked, paranoid, frazzled, and stressed, he double-checked the smallest detail up until Harry pushed him against the wall with a strong hand to his chest and said, "Breathe, Bridezilla." 

The entire day was a blur after that. Louis and his mum walked down the aisle to the theme from _Cider House Rules_ and Robbie was smiling, the sun low, glowing pink and gold behind him. They had rented out a winery in the country, because Robbie's parents were old American money, and it was – for lack of a better word – perfect. Everyone said so. 

After the bone-shattering terror of saying _I do_ , the champagne was broken out and the reception was loud with laughter and love. Louis remembers it all; he remembers being awed and overwhelmed and teary. He remembers Harry stumbling to his feet, shattering his champagne flute with his knife, stuttering through his rambling, emotional best man's speech. He remembers Lottie blushing right down to her fingertips when Zayn asked her to dance. He remembers Niall asking the caterer how many no-shows there were and taking all the extra meals back to his seat. He remembers Robbie. Robbie, holding his hand so tight under the table, smiling at him, pressing kisses to his cheek whenever he could. Louis had never been happier or more scared.

It was perfect. 

They were perfect. 

Everyone said so. 

 

*

 

The kids have been in bed for five hours. Five hours and two minutes. It is 1:02 in the morning. Louis is in his bedroom, curled up in the window seat. There's a bottle of wine between his feet and there are two fingers left. He isn't sure if a finger is a proper unit of measurement for wine, but it works. It works for whiskey, it'll work for wine. He wishes it were whiskey. 

He doesn't know what to do, is the thing. He doesn't know. They – _he_ , always _he_ now – have a pillow-top mattress. Pillow-top mattresses are the worst. That is a certain and proven fact, Louis now realises. Pillow-top mattresses conform to the body, conform to the indents of sleep. Pillow-top mattresses hold their shape and cannot be flipped. 

His pillow-top mattress has a ghostly valley on the right hand side, and Louis doesn't know what to do. His phone is next to him, charging, and the clock keeps flipping forward. 1:03. 1:04. 

He unlocks it. _i need a new mattress. what kind of mattress do you have? do u like it?_

There's a pause. Louis locks and unlocks his phone, the picture of his kids flashing in front of his eyes, the only light in the room. Sofie is pulling a face, fingers in the corners of her mouth, stretching it wide. Her eyes are crossed. Louis taught her that. Sammy is trying his best, but he still hasn't grasped the concept of how to make a silly face. He looks like he's taking a particularly rough poo. Louis grins a little. The photo was taken on the last day of school, when Robbie and Louis picked them up and took them for ice cream to celebrate. They're in front of the water fountain, where Robbie had rinsed off their sticky faces, shaking his head, never able to understand the absolute mess that comes with children. Robbie was an only child growing up. 

His phone lights up with a response. Harry says, _???_ but he's typing again. The next message comes quickly: _why are you up babe get some sleep :-(_

Louis rolls his eyes. If he could sleep, he'd fucking be asleep. 

He's been so quick to anger lately. He closes his eyes. Breathes. 

_thanks for the tip mate why didnt i think of that_ , he sends back. He stares at the conversation for a moment. 

Harry starts typing, and then stops. Starts again. _sorry sorry sorry stupid. love you. can i do anything?_

Louis licks his lips. He types out, _come over_. Deletes it. Types, _i'm lonely_. Deletes it. Types, _i dont know how to do this_. Deletes it. 

_what ru up to?_ is what he settles on. 

Immediately: _nothing. want company?_

Rubbing his hand over his face, Louis whisper-screams in the back of his throat. 

_please. yes._

 

*

 

Louis has always thought his friendship with Harry was one of the more cliche aspects of his life. It's another one of those stories Louis will never forget; one of those stories they tell, voices overlapping, tipsy, at dinner parties. Everyone rolls their eyes, smiling fondly, because everyone has heard the story eighteen fucking thousand times. It's a classic, really. The classic story. 

In Louis's third year of university, he became a resident advisor, because the idea of free board and a stipend was too good to pass up. In reality, he found himself hating past-Louis for ever signing himself up for this bollocks, because checking in hundreds of scared/anxious/excited/obnoxious first years turned out to be both mind-numbing and hideously annoying simultaneously. At the end of the first move-in day, Louis had just gotten back to his room and immediately collapsed on his bed. He was about to turn on the telly and absolutely block out everything about life when there was a knock on his door. He got up to open it, and standing on the other side was this tall, gangly, curly-haired boy. 

This is the point where Harry always jumps into the story, talking about how Louis blushed and stared and stuttered and was absolutely _appalled_ at the knowledge that Harry was a first year, because he could barely hold in his lust. 

Louis rolls his eyes at that, every time, and starts explaining how Harry couldn't figure out how to connect his ethernet internet and how he _dragged_ Louis to his room to fix it for him. 

That year was unexpectedly wonderful. The first few months, Harry would knock on Louis's door, explaining some random and completely trivial problem in his slow drawl and Louis would follow Harry back to his room to try to figure it out. It became a little habit, until Louis stopped him an evening in October and said, "Look, Haz, do you wanna come get dinner with me and my mates?"

Harry always jumps in here too – _He finally caught on to the fact we were friends_ – and Louis retorts, _I just wanted you to stop breaking shit for an excuse to talk to me._

They became inseparable after that, really. Harry and Niall hit it off right away, and Louis had to deal with several noise complaints regarding Harry's room during extended FIFA battles – Harry likes to remind Louis how he would join in as opposed to shutting it down, but – and Zayn liked anyone who could make Louis flustered. 

It worked out well, and it's worked out for ten years since. There had always been that joke in their friend circle about how Louis and Harry would eventually get married and have broods of children and a house in the country, but it's never been an issue. They've laughed it off, laughed about their low-grade attraction, and once Louis met Robbie, the jokes faded out. 

In the early days, Zayn would always get Louis stoned and try to get him to admit he and Harry were sleeping together, but Louis could always truthfully brush it off. It's not like he's never thought about it, but he's also thought about sleeping with Zayn, with Niall. He's never, ever felt any desire to jeopardise his friendship with Harry for a few fucks, and aside from that one time at half term during Louis's final year, they've never come close. 

It is what it is with Harry, and Louis has always been so awed by it. 

 

*

 

Twenty minutes after Louis sent the last text, he hears the front door click open. He's still curled in the window seat and he has no desire to move, except to shift the wine bottle from the sill to between his legs, so Harry won't knock it over with his stupid spaghetti limbs. 

There's a soft rap at his bedroom door. 

"Yeah," Louis says, quiet but not quite a whisper. 

Harry tiptoes across the floor to the window seat and slides in across from Louis. The view is nice, really. The stoplights flash yellow after 11pm and it plays off well with the streetlamps, dimly illuminating the neighbourhood. 

"Hey," Harry says. He reaches out and grasps Louis's ankle, holding it tightly, fingers circling the bone. 

"Hi," Louis says. He sighs, and lets out a self-deprecating laugh. "I'm sorry. I'm sure you have, like, people to do." 

Harry rolls his eyes. "Shut up." 

Louis leans against the window, the chill of the night pressing against his cheek. "Tell me something. Tell me about your day." 

Harry tilts his head and studies Louis for a moment. "Okay. Well. I hung out with my favourite people today. Got my arse kicked at football by a coupla toddlers. Got it even more kicked by this fit boy who used to fix my internet at uni." 

A soft grin makes its way onto Louis's face. "You'd fuck up your internet on purpose."

Harry crosses his eyes. "I needed an excuse to get the fit boy to talk to me, obviously."

Louis chuckles and rubs his hand over his face. "You charmer."

There's a silence, then, until Harry starts, "So, Lou," and Louis sighs.

"It's nothing."

"It's not nothing," Harry says. "And I get that. Like, I get that it's too, like, big or whatever to talk about. Or something. But please give me something. You've not talked about it at all."

"I have," Louis says, defensive.

Harry licks his lips, glancing out the window. "No, you haven't. Not in terms of you. You've talked about the kids a lot, which is fine. I completely understand your worry about them. I'm worried too. But, Lou, you're my best friend. Let me help." 

It's silent again. Harry's looking at him intently. Louis closes his eyes and listens hard to the night, listens for any sound that there's a child awake, crying because they haven't seen one of their parents for a month. There's no noise. 

"I just..." Louis begins, taking a deep breath. "I don't get it. I don't know how to deal with this because I don't understand. I don't understand what happened. We were happy, right? I was happy. I always thought we were happy." He stops and looks at Harry. 

Harry nods, fingers tightening on Louis's ankle. "I thought so, yeah."

"And then we weren't. Suddenly. Or, I guess, _he_ wasn't. And it had to have been going on for months, right? Years? Years of him feeling stuck here. Stuck with me. I just..." Louis trails off, laughing to himself. "I became the person he settled with. I don't know what to do with that. I was a fucking consolation prize."

"Hey. No." Harry sits up, leans into Louis's space. His hand leaves Louis's ankle and grasps his chin, tilting his head up to meet Harry's eyes. "Louis, if you say something like that again, I'll smack you. You know I will." 

Louis grins a little, humourless. "But it's true. He told me, you know? He told me he was stuck, that he felt stuck here. He told me this wasn't how he saw his life. And I fucking––I fucking asked him what I could do. We could move, I said. We could pack up and go anywhere." He laughs, pulling back from Harry. "It's weird, I guess. I can't, like, handle the feeling of imbalance. I'd have done anything, and he didn't want any of it. I wasn't important enough. His _family_ wasn't important enough." 

Harry's still gazing at him, lips tight and eyes wide. "Lou...," he says, and pauses. "Lou, you realise this is the behaviour of a proper shit, right? This is not about you or anything you did or could have done. This is him being terrible. He was a bad husband and a bad father and he didn't deserve you or the kids in the slightest." 

The night is clear, cloudless. There are stars. Louis loves looking at stars. The drop from the window to the roof is too far to attempt right now, even with Harry's lanky body to help out, but he'd love to lay on the roof and stare up at the sky. 

He says, finally, "I just kind of feel like that was it. That he was my shot and I fucked it up. Let it go. Didn't try hard enough, or something. And now I have two kids who're only gonna see their father every two weeks, if he even fucking bothers."

Making a disgusted noise, Harry says, "Can't you keep him from seeing them?" 

Louis looks at him. "Maybe, but how could I do that to them?" 

"Okay." Harry nods. He glances around the room, settling on the still-made bed. "Have you tried to sleep?" 

Shrugging, Louis says. "It's... there's this–" he cuts himself off, laughing again. "I'm so fucking stupid." 

"No."

"It's a pillowtop mattress," Louis says. "There's a place for two bodies pressed in there. I don't know." 

Harry takes a deep breath. "Okay." He stands up, unfolding himself, and reaches out a hand to Louis. "Okay. We're gonna go to bed. It doesn't matter what body, right? Will I suffice?" 

"H," Louis says. He bites his lip, squeezing his eyes closed for a second. "Yeah, would you? Fuck. I'm so sorry. I keep... I hate being this, like, useless _thing_ you have to take care of." 

Harry pulls him up, standing close to him, and wraps him up in a hug. "Stop saying that shit. Get undressed, Tomlinson. We're gonna sleep and I'm probably going to cuddle you and it's gonna happen because I want it to." 

"You charmer," Louis says again, tugging on one of Harry's curls. "Bet that's how you get all the boys." 

Harry winks. "You know it." 

They undress in silence, Louis sliding out of his old uni sweatshirt and joggers, Harry peeling off his jeans and teeshirt. 

"Lou?" Harry says as they're tugging back the comforter.

"Mm?"

Harry's quiet for a beat, crawling into the bed and adjusting the pillows behind him. He finally says, "I'll, like. I mean, if you want me to, I can, um–"

"Harry."

"I can stay here as long as you need me to, you know? Help out with the kids, take 'em to camp. Cook. Give you a break." Harry's voice is small, tentative, as if he's unsure if he's overstepping. Louis's heart aches. He reaches out a hand, knocking his knuckles against Harry's upper arm. Harry finds his hand in the dark and Louis pulls on it a little, until Harry gets the hint and wraps his arms around Louis. 

"I'd like that," Louis whispers. "But you will need to leave the second you want to, okay? I can't – I can't have this happen again." 

Harry shushes him, stroking a hand down his side. "We'll make it work, Lou, I promise."

 

*

 

The next morning, Louis wakes up warm. The blinds are open, the morning sun shining into his bedroom, and he's wrapped in the duvet. He smacks his lips together, wrinkling his nose at the taste of stale wine coating his tongue. Rolling over, his hand reaches out towards the other side of the bed, finding it empty. Before his stomach can sink in the way he's gotten so, so used to, his fingers dig into the sheets and he registers the warmth. The other side of the bed is warm. 

His clock is blinking at him, telling him it's 10:03 in the morning, and Louis sits up immediately. "Fuck," he hisses. "Fuck." He stumbles out of bed, grabbing his trackies and a teeshirt from the floor. The kids have to be at their daycamp in an hour and getting them _anywhere_ involves at least twenty minutes of gathering shit and making sure everyone has a lunch and sunscreen and proper shoes and has used the potty, not to mention waking them up, brushing their teeth, and feeding them. Louis is _the worst father_. "Fuck," he says, one more time, just for good measure. 

He stumbles down the hallway, stopping short when he sees Sofie's bedroom door open. "Sof?" he says, cautious, creeping closer. There's no answer. He knocks lightly on the doorframe and sticks his head in. Her bed's empty. Louis's stomach clenches. Sammy's door is open as well, his bed just as empty. 

"Sof? Sam?" he calls, louder this time. Trying to calm his heartbeat, he takes a few deep breaths and leans against the wall. There's a distinct smell of bacon in the air and – he pauses his frantic train of thought – if he listens closely, he can hear Sofie's giggle. 

Louis closes his eyes and slumps back, hitting his head on a framed school picture of Sammy from last year. Fuck. 

When Louis gets downstairs, Harry's got his hair tied up on top of his head with some of Sofie's flower hair-ties and he's got an apron covering his bare chest. Sofie and Sammy are sitting at the counter, both colouring, and the radio is blaring some party-pop that Louis never lets them listen to. He stands in the doorway for a moment, smiling at the scene, until Harry looks up and beams over at him. 

"Hey, kids," Harry stage-whispers. "Looks like sleepyhead finally woke up." 

Sammy and Sofie whip their heads to find Louis and two pairs of eyes light up. "Daddy!" they yell in tandem. "Daddy, Uncle Harry's making us bacon and he let me do his hair and we get to colour and listen to music and he already brushed all of our teeths and he even let us _choose our own clothes_ ," Sofie babbles at him, talking over herself in excitement. 

Louis grins and walks over to them, giving them both a kiss on the head. "You guys look great. Did you make sure to thank Uncle Harry for doing all that for you?" 

They both immediately look up at Harry and say, "Thank you, Uncle Harry," in solemn, dutiful voices. Harry laughs and shakes his head. "Anything for you guys," he says, blowing them each a kiss. 

Louis meets Harry's eyes over their heads and mouths his own _thank you_. Harry just gives him a small, private smile and a wink. 

"Well," Louis says, "I suppose I should make you monsters lunch. What do you guys want today? PB&J or turkey?" 

Just as the kids open their mouths to answer, Harry jumps in with, "Don't worry about it, Lou," and nods in head in the direction of two lunchboxes waiting on the end of the counter. Louis closes his eyes. 

"Harry Styles," Louis breathes. "You are a veritable saint." 

"Nah," Harry says, laughing a little. "You just deserved a lie-in. Least I could do for you." 

Louis just shakes his head. "How can I help?" he asks weakly. 

Harry points at the stool next to Sammy's hi-chair. "Sit and eat some bacon."

Louis obeys, watching Harry with something close to awe as he piles dishes in the sink, rinses them, and stacks them into the dishwasher. He watches as Harry asks his kids what they're most excited for about zoo camp this week and he watches as Harry tidies his kitchen like he belongs in it. 

They finish eating and Louis takes the reins back from Harry, tapping him on the bum and telling him to put some clothes on. Harry just winks at him again. Louis rolls his eyes. 

"Alright, kiddos. Do we have sunscreen on?" Louis asks them. 

"Yes," Sofie says, a little too quickly. Louis arches an eyebrow and glances at Harry. Harry shakes his head silently. 

"Nice try," Louis says, pulling it out. They groan, but stand still as he slathers it on them. By the time he's done, Harry's back downstairs in some of Louis's football shorts and an old teeshirt that's much too tight on him. "Okay," Louis says, clapping his hands together and rubbing in the excess sunscreen. "Potty, then meet us by the door. Zoo time!" 

The kids cheer and thunder off down the hall. "No pushing!" Louis calls after them. 

Harry's leaning against the wall in the foyer and Louis walks over to him. He's silent for a moment, just staring, and then he lets out a weak chuckle. "Harry Styles," he mutters. "You are too much." 

Harry just grins down at him. "Nah," he says. "C'mere." Holding out his arms, he waits for Louis to step closer, and then tugs him into a tight hug. Louis holds on and buries his face in Harry's shoulder, trying to control his breathing. He's overwhelmed by _so much_ , all the time, and Harry's this perfect storm of wonderful and scary. Louis cannot afford to rely on him. Louis has learned he cannot afford to rely on anyone else. 

"Stop thinking so loudly," Harry says, tapping Louis sharply on the forehead. "'S not healthy." 

"Yeah, yeah." Louis rolls his eyes. The kids are pounding back down the hallway and Louis steps back from Harry, whispering, "Love you," into his hair. Harry squeezes Louis's hip in response. 

Grabbing his car keys, Louis widens his eyes excitedly down at the two bouncing children that barely come up to his waist. "Are we ready to go?" 

 

*

 

"So what are your plans for today?" Harry asks as they fight through London traffic on the way back from the zoo. 

Louis shrugs, slamming on the breaks as some fucking cabbie cuts him off. "Dunno," he says. "Should clean the house, probably. Talk to my lawyer. Do a whole bunch of shit no sane human actually wants to do."

Laughing lightly, Harry leans against the window to tilt his body toward Louis's. "Want company?" he asks. 

Louis glances over at him. "Dunno if I'm gonna be great company, mate. Just chores and stuff." 

Harry shrugs. "Don't care. I can amuse myself. I'll just be around to help or whatever. I can clean. I daresay I can clean better than you can." 

"Yeah, well, it's not your bloody mess to clean," Louis snaps. "You don't need to do this, H." 

"Yeah," Harry says, voice calm and quiet. "Yeah, Lou, you gotta realise that I _know_ I don't need to do this. I want to, yeah? Let me at least be in your house. I'll make noise and annoy you and it'll be just like uni." 

"Just don't break my bloody internet," Louis relents. They're coming up onto his street now, and Louis slows down as a little boy bikes across driveways. Harry reaches out and squeezes his thigh. 

"Seriously, mate. Let me clean." 

"Ugh." Louis turns into his carpark and idles as his garage opens. "We'll clean together." 

"Perfect." Harry sits up, grins. "I'll make margaritas. It really _will_ be just like uni." 

When they get into the house, Harry makes a beeline for the stereo, hooking up his ipod and absolutely blasting the shit out of the new Daft Punk. Louis digs under the kitchen sink for cleaning supplies and when Harry makes his way into the room, Louis looks up at him and asks, innocent, "Is this Skrillex?" just to see the absolutely appalled look on Harry's face. 

The next two hours are playful: Harry teaches the vacuum to ballroom dance and Louis makes a slip-n-slide on the kitchen tiles and Louis threatens to dump bleach on Harry's head and Harry actually _does_ spray bleach on Louis, but eventually the house inches toward a state of greater cleanliness than it began. 

"You're actually no bloody help at all," Louis says, breathless, after Harry's chased him around the entire house, wielding the toilet brush like a sword. 

Harry laughs and plops down on the floor, spreading himself out. Louis's old teeshirt has ridden up his stomach and the shoulders are pulled taut across Harry's broader frame. Louis stands over him, holding his foot just a half inch above Harry's stomach, threatening. 

"I'll be good, I swear," Harry says. "Don't punish me, Mr. Tomlinson." 

"Oi," Louis says, dropping his foot and pressing down slightly. "None of that dirty talk in this house." 

Harry just arches an eyebrow and smirks. "I know you like it. I've heard you." 

Louis drops his jaw, mock-scandalised. "How dare you." 

Harry grabs Louis's ankle at an angle and tries to tug him down to the floor. "Take a break with me," he whines. "I'm _tired_."

Snorting, Louis shakes his ankle free, but sits down. "Well, maybe you wouldn't be if you didn't wake up and _parent_ instead of leaving it to the professionals." 

"Shut up," Harry says fondly. "You deserved it." 

Louis groans and leans over until his head rests on Harry's belly. He closes his eyes and sighs when he feels Harry's fingers start to card through his hair. "I should call my lawyer," he mutters. 

"'Bout what?" Harry asks. 

"About visitation. Finalising everything. Assets. Big lawyer words that a simple biology teacher like myself can't grasp." The everpresent tension, stress, dread starts to claw back at the lining of Louis's stomach. He has to _deal_. He has to make the call. He probably has to call Robbie, too. Start the process of amicability, or whatever. Has to swallow everything that's been thrown at him, because it's not about him. It's never about just him. Louis has to make this easy for his kids, or he'll never forgive himself. 

"I don't want them to grow up and look back on all of this shit and resent me, you know?" Louis whispers, after it's been silent for a few moments. He twists to turn his face, meeting Harry's eyes. 

Harry looks back at him and licks his lips, clearly weighing his words. "Lou..." he starts, and lets out a whoosh of breath. "You're being a fucking champion through this. They're gonna see that. That's what they're gonna look back and see. They're gonna see how strong their father was; how much he dealt with. You know they will. You know what it's like to have a dad skip out, y'know? You never resented your mum for that." 

Louis shrugs, looks down at the carpet and digs his fingers into it. "I did for awhile. I resented having so much responsibility, you know? When all my mates were out drinking and having fun and being teenagers, I was bouncing between jobs to make money for my mum. Or I was babysitting. Or doing laundry or the washing up or making fairy bread or playing horses or watching Peppa Pig. I resented that. I resented her for making me do it." 

Under Louis's cheek, Harry's just rises and falls deeply, soothingly. The rumble of his voice starts in Louis's ear, traveling up through his vocal cords and into the air between them. "Yeah, but look at the context, Lou. It's different here. Neither of your kids are going to have to do that. I'm always going to be here to help whenever you need. Robbie, for all his cuntitude, will pay child support – you know he will. You have Zayn, Niall, Liam, Perrie, and Eleanor whenever you need a night off."

"Yeah," Louis says. He sits up, done with the conversation. "Should make the call, I guess." 

Harry reaches out to squeeze Louis's hand. "I'll be in the living room, yeah? You've got some Gordon Ramsay on SkyPlus, right?"

"Always," Louis says, and stands up, pulling Harry up with him. "I'll be in the office. Hide any rope and lock the oven – this may drain me of my will to carry on." 

Rolling his eyes, Harry gives Louis's arse a firm pat and says, "Go get 'em, tiger. I'll make some biscuits. Celebratory measures."

 

*

 

The next month is an exercise in trust, or the regaining of it. Harry stays, as he said he would, and Louis is so scared of falling into that trap of relief. He goes to sleep every night, Harry's lanky form pressing into the body impression on the other side of the bed, and he wakes up either to an alarm, or two hours later to the sun and the smell of bacon. He's never sure, the night before, which it'll be – whether or not Harry think he needs a lie-in or if Harry thinks the productivity will be good for him. It's a bit like having a live-in nurse, except hopefully Louis is far off from needing his nappy changed. 

The divorce inches towards finalisation and Robbie's first visitation is scheduled for ten o'clock in the morning, the second Saturday of August. Louis wakes up to his alarm, overheated, sweaty, and tangled up in spidery limbs. 

"Harry," Louis grumbles. 

Harry makes a snuffling noise into Louis's hair and just tightens his arms around Louis's middle. 

"Harry," Louis tries again, sharper.

Still there's no sign of wakefulness, so Louis jams his elbow back, directly into Harry's sternum. 

Harry jolts awake. "Motherfu–" he all-but-shouts, cutting himself off just in time. "What the hell was that for?" 

Louis pushes himself to sit up, rubbing his hands over his face. "Gotta get movin', mate. No time for your smothering disguised as affection."

Blinking hazily, Harry looks at the clock and sighs. "Lou. It's seven in the fuckin' AM."

"Yeah," Louis says shortly, rolling himself out of bed. "I'm gonna shower and have a shave. Then you're gonna shower and have a shave. Then we are gonna get the kids up and dressed and fed. Then you are gonna go the fuck _home_ , because you have not been home in a month. Then my ex-fucking-husband is going to arrive and take my children away from me for two fucking days. Then I am going to have a breakdown of historic proportions. Then I am going to pull myself the fuck together. Then I am going to get very drunk. Then I am going to break down again. Then I am going to go to bed. Then I am going to wake up and start preparing lesson plans. Then I am going to go to bed. Then I am going to wake up. Then my children will be back. That is what is going to happen." Louis stops, draws in a breath. He's sitting on the edge of his bed, toes digging into the carpet. He stares at the carpet grain, brain creating patterns where there are none. 

A big hand strokes down Louis's spine, and Louis can't help but tense. "I see a few flaws in this plan," Harry says, quietly.

"Oh, do you?" Louis says. He means for it to come out snappish, sardonic. It comes out weary. 

The bed dips as Harry crawls over to sit beside Louis. "Yep," Harry says. "The first parts are good. Showering, shaving, kids – all good. But the next bit, me going home? I don't really see that happening." 

Louis holds in a sigh. "H..." he starts. 

Harry holds up a hand. "Blah, blah, the kids are gone, you don't need me, blah, blah, bullshit, bullshit. I am perfectly capable of getting drunk with you. I'm perfectly capable of weathering breakdowns. I don't scare easy, Tomlinson." 

"Whatever," Louis says. He stands up and slides his pants down his thighs as he walks toward the bathroom. "Stay, go, I don't care." 

"Sure," Harry says, and Louis can hear his easy grin. 

As Louis waits for the shower to heat up, his mind snaps online, hi-speed. Harry's been essentially living at his house for a month. Harry's stepped fully into husband-mode – parenting and cooking and cleaning and generally filling in every gap Robbie left. Louis squeezes his eyes shut. He feels like he needs a pen and a piece of paper to write down every problem he has with this. A mental list will have to do for now, he reasons. 

Louis isn't learning to live or cope independently from his married life.   
Harry has no commitment to him or his children outside of his misguided hero-complex.   
Harry is completely free to leave at any point he deems suitable.   
When that eventuality occurs – which it will – Louis will have been left twice in one summer.   
Waking up in someone's arms every morning is making Louis feel more loved than is strictly appropriate.   
Neither of them have had a shag in far longer than they're used to.   
Louis is becoming alarmingly shag-starved.   
Shagging Harry would top the list of Louis's admittedly lengthy list of Poor Decisions.   
Being on the receiving end of a pity-shag from his best friend might actually kill Louis.   
Louis has two children; he is contractually obliged not to die. 

He stops, once he realises he's been in the shower for ten minutes. Perfunctorily washing his hair and running some soap over his body, he shuts off the shower and tries as hard as he fucking can to shut off his brain. 

"Finally," Harry yells from the bedroom. "Was starting to think you fucking drowned in there." 

"I'm done," Louis says back. "Get your skinny arse in here and rinse the stench off."

A rush of steam leaves the bathroom when Harry opens the door. Louis has a towel wrapped around himself, and Harry tugs on it as he passes him at the sink. "Lookin' hot, Tommo," he says, giving Louis a wink in the mirror. Louis sticks his leg out behind himself in a weak effort at tripping him. 

"Hurry," Louis says. "Busy day."

"Christ," Harry mutters. " _Mum_."

Louis rolls his eyes and shaves in silence, trying to keep his hand steady and face straight as he listens to Harry's low voice humming what might possibly be a rendition of Rihanna's We Found Love. Louis hates/loves him. 

Objectively, Louis's feelings toward Harry have never been simple. They've never just been cut-and-dried _friends_ – there's never been a reigning sense of the platonic between them. It's always been just to the left of that; they've never quite achieved the idea of _personal space_ or how to whisper or manly back-pats. It's more voiceless communication, lips brushing against skin, cuddling just for the closeness, fingers pressing into skin. Louis has always had a baseline of attraction, of romance, for Harry – something he tamps down because, he reasons, he's a little attracted to all of his mates. If pressed, Louis would probably shag any of them. He doesn't ever examine that it's slightly different with Harry – again, slightly to the left. 

He's _always_ avoided looking too closely at his relationship with Harry. In retrospect, Louis knew in the back of his mind that Robbie never trusted Harry, never fully took to Harry as every human on the planet was wont to take to Harry. Louis would try to force them together, try to make them be mates, try to convince Robbie – and himself, by proxy – that Harry was just _one of the lads_. Robbie had seen through that; Louis had, on some level, seen through it too. But he's always avoided most personal reflection, and reflection on his feelings toward Harry is so intensely personal that the subject, frankly, terrifies the shit out of him. 

The blurred line of platonic and romantic is the scariest part. Louis has no doubt that sex with Harry would be amazing. He has no doubt that being Harry's – what, _boyfriend_? – would be amazing. He's just always filed away those thoughts into a folder of his brain marked _in another life_. In another time, another world, another life, Louis knows he and Harry would be amazing together. But this reality, where so much more than his own emotional stability is at stake, it's just. It's too big, too risky, too scary for Louis to think about. He doesn't want to ask that much of Harry and he can't promise Harry anything that grand or worthy in return and Louis's lungs feel like boa constrictors are tightening around his chest. 

"Hey, Lou," Harry's voice breaks through the glass walls of Louis's psyche. "You alright?" 

Louis blinks. "Hm? Yeah, sorry." He scoots over, allowing Harry room at the sink, and it's so dreadfully practiced – so much a part of his Robbie Routine – that he cringes, fights nausea. 

"You don't look all that fantastic, love," Harry says, gentle.

Louis shrugs, focuses back in on shaving the other half of his face. "Big day," he says. 

Harry purses his lips and nods, lathering his own face with shaving foam. "You should wake the kids," he says. "I'll start breakfast as soon as I'm done here." 

"Okay," Louis breathes. He finishes up and pats his face down, wiping off any errant foam. His fingers are shaking slightly as he closes his shaving kit and Harry must notice, because suddenly there's a hand on Louis's hip and Harry's dark eyes are looking down at him with concern. 

"Hey. It's gonna be okay. It's gonna go smoothly and everything will be fine. You will be fine." The sincerity of Harry's words is belied by the white foam-beard, but Louis barely notices. He just swallows and nods and squeezes his own hand around the one Harry has gripping his hip. 

"You always seem to be fuckin' right, no matter how hard I try to prove otherwise," Louis says, quirking his mouth in a wan grin. 

Harry just winks at him, turns back into the mirror, and Louis pretends not to notice Harry's eyes on his arse as he walks back into the bedroom. 

 

*

 

Alcohol is going down smoothly tonight, Louis notices absently. After Robbie took the kids, Harry dragged Louis out to Sainsbury's for what he referred to as _supplies_. So now Harry and Louis are sitting in Louis's living room with a mostly empty bottle of vodka and two empty bags of crisps. 

They'd started with White Russians, because Harry is _ridiculous_ , and then they'd moved on to shots, and now they're idly sipping on vodka-sodas. 

An old episode of Friends is on the telly and Louis is some drunken combination of sad and giggly. Rachel can't stop laughing every time Ross touches her butt. 

"D'you remember," Harry starts, slow and relaxed, "that time in uni?" He's sprawled out on the couch next to Louis, feet kicked up onto the coffee table, knees spread, long fingers cradling his glass between his parted thighs. Louis is curled up in the corner, feet tucked under him, his own smaller fingers tracing patterns into the condensation on his glass. 

"Hmm?" Louis sounds, glancing away from the telly, over to Harry. 

Harry laughs to himself, shaking his head. "That time at Niall's, my second year? Your last year. Half term? Remember that huge party Niall threw?" 

"Oh," Louis says. He takes a long drink and focuses back on the screen. "Yeah. That was a laugh."

"Yeah," Harry says, a light laugh in his throat. Louis glances back over at him. Harry's expression is a war between tight and forced relaxation. Louis tightens his fingers around his glass and takes another drink. "A laugh," Harry repeats. 

"Harry." 

"It's just–" Harry shifts, leaning forward to set his glass on a coaster, turning fully to face Louis. "You ever, like, wonder?" 

Louis eyes him sharply, looking from his eyes to the dwindling vodka. "You're a bit sloshed, mate." 

Harry rolls his eyes. "I just think about it sometimes, you know? What if you and I had gotten together, before you met Robbie? What would it have changed, you know?" 

Louis looks down at his lap. His jeans are wearing out at the knees, the denim worn down to a thin stretch of fuzzy thread. He wonders when he got these jeans. Couldn't have been more than five years ago. "Well, we probably wouldn't be here," he says. Sitting up a little straighter, he pulls out the remote from the crack in the cushions and says, louder, "Wanna watch something else?" 

"Remember that night, though?" Harry presses. He gestures to the telly. "You kept laughing when I grabbed your arse."

"Yeah, mate, I was drunk," Louis says, dry. Rolling his eyes, he lets out a breath. "We'd just won beer pong, hadn't we?" 

Harry nods, a smile flitting around the wide corners of his mouth. "Yeah, yeah. You could barely stand, but you sunk that last ball. Pretty sure I asked you to bloody marry me when you did that." 

Louis laughs, now, but it comes out tight. "I remember you had to practically fuckin' carry my home."

"Probably bridal style," Harry says, winking. "Nah, but remember, right after we won that game you dragged me outside and sat me down on the steps, right, because you'd bummed that fag off Zayn and wanted to share it even though smoking when you're drunk _always_ makes you throw up." 

"Right," Louis says quietly. "Yeah, I remember, H."

"Yeah," Harry says, matching Louis's tone. "Then you kissed me." 

And there it is. Louis hums noncommittally, shrugging his shoulders a little. "Was pretty pissed that night, Harry."

"Yeah," Harry agrees softly. They're both quiet for a moment, and Louis relaxes minutely, thinking Harry's dropped it.

But then, suddenly: "I just think about it sometimes, you know?" Harry says. "You know? You and me?" 

Louis lets out a long breath. "What are you doing, H?" he says, quiet again. 

Harry's still, briefly, and then lets out a small, tight laugh. "I don't know, mate. I don't know." He shakes his head. "I wasn't ever gonna bring this up, you know." 

Louis arches an eyebrow in his direction and Harry smiles, sheepish. "Well, okay," Harry amends. "I probably would have at some point. Just, you know, the question of _when_ applied. Still applies." 

Looking down, Louis runs a finger over the worn knees of his jeans. "I mean..." he starts, and then trails off, licking his lips. 

"Hey, hey," Harry says. "I don't mean to, like, put you on the spot. I don't know what I'm fuckin' doing. I'm sorry, Lou. Don't think about it." 

Louis nods and they're quiet again, focusing back on the television, on the next episode of Friends that Channel 4 plays late into the night. 

Around ten minutes later, Monica is yelling at Chandler and Louis takes a deep breath. "But yeah, Harry. I've thought about it," he almost whispers. 

Harry jumps a little, surprised at the sound of Louis's voice. He looks over. "Yeah?" he says, tentative. 

Louis bites his lip, twisting his fingers together. "Yeah." He shrugs. "I mean, how could I not, right?" He laughs a little. "It's just never been a good time, I guess. I mean, before, when we were in school, I sort of always felt like... I don't know. We couldn't have taken it seriously? And that would probably have blown up in our faces." Louis chuckles again, shaking his head. "And then I met Robbie, and that ate up a big part of my life where I decidedly did _not_ think about it, you know?" 

Harry's quiet now, fingers tapping out a rhythm on his thighs, lips twitching. He nods a little, and then nods again, as if steeling himself. "And... and now?" Harry asks, voice whisper-soft. 

Sighing, Louis leans forward and gracefully plucks the bottle of vodka off the coffee table. He pours about a shot and a half into his own glass and waves the bottle at Harry, offering. Harry shakes his head. Louis takes a long drink, melting ice and the dregs of soda the only buffer between his throat and the sting of alcohol. He smiles at Harry as he swallows, sad, small, and tight. "And now... I couldn't ask you to do that. Give up your life like that."

Harry lets out a sharp breath. "Louis, look at me. Seriously. Look at me."

Dumbly, Louis raises his eyes to Harry's. 

"I am here. Every day, I have been here. For you, for the kids. Because I love you. I love your family. I _want_ to be here, to be with you, to help you, to be... to be _something_ for you." Harry stops, sucks in a breath. His fingers are clenching around his thighs now, digging in. 

Louis blinks. "What, so you're here to – what. To manipulate me into _dating_ you? To lull me into some sort of false sense of security? What are you saying, Harry?" His voice is edgier than he means for it to be, but his body is wound so tightly now that he can't control it. 

Harry widens his eyes, wounded. He opens and closes his mouth. "I... excuse me?" 

"You think you can come over here and be all – all _wonderful_ to your pathetic little friend and he'll just... just, what, fall into bed with you?" Louis's voice is raising wildly now. "Was that your _plan_?" 

"Is that something you think I'd do?" Harry asks him, low and dangerous. 

Louis rubs his hand over his face, backing down as quickly as his hackles rose. "No," he whispers. "No. I'm sorry. It's just too..."

"Too much," Harry finishes. "Yeah."

They're silent, until Harry breaks it. "Lou, you should go on up to bed. I'll sleep down here tonight." 

Louis just nods and stands up, stumbling into the kitchen to drop his glass in the sink. He makes his way over to the stairs and pauses, walking back into the living room. "I'm sorry, H. I would never think that of you." 

Harry's mouth twists. Louis screws his eyes shut and shakes himself. Dropping a kiss on the top of Harry's head, he squeezes his shoulder and whispers, "Goodnight, H."

"Night, Lou," comes Harry's quiet reply. 

 

*

 

That night at Niall's burnt into Louis's memory. The party was big, as Niall's always were. Niall always knew everyone, hundreds of people packed into a little house just downtown. There was loud music pounding through the house, swirling through the air with the laughter, the yells, the conversation. Louis and Harry were playing beer pong against Zayn and Niall, and both teams were on their last cup. In a rather spectacular feat of drunken achievement, Louis sunk their last ball in sudden death and let out a delighted shriek as Harry grabbed him round the waist, spun him in a circle, and kissed him square on the lips. It'd been their first kiss, and Louis's sort-of boyfriend at the time had laughed drunkenly, wobbled over, and tried to kiss both Harry and Louis at the same time. 

"I'm gonna marry you one day," Harry had yelled over the stupid house music, and pointed drunkenly at Louis. Louis had thrown his head back and laughed, stumbling over into Liam, forcing Liam to hold him up. "Harry fuckin' Styles," Louis crowed. "You just made me bloody swoon."

Harry had shaken his head and Louis laughed again, tugging on Harry's wrist, dragging him out to the back garden. It was suddenly, starkly quiet outside once the door swung closed behind them. Louis had sighed, still smiling, and took one of Zayn's cigarettes from where it was tucked behind his ear. "Have a light?" he'd asked Harry. 

Harry had scrunched up his face but dug in his pocket, pulling out an old lighter with a flourish, lighting the cigarette. His eyes never left Louis. 

Taking a drag, Louis winked at Harry, blowing out the smoke in some ridiculous mockery of seduction. Harry had chuckled, shaken his head again. "Gimme a hit," he said in his low voice. 

Louis had handed it over, letting their fingers brush. Harry placed it in his mouth, inhaling cursorily before dropping it off the step, stepping on it with the toe of his beat up brown boots. "Hey," he said. "C'mere."

Grinning shakily, drunkenly, Louis stepped forward into Harry's space, shivering slightly as Harry's hands came up to rest on the dip of his waist. He smiled up at him. "Hi," he said. 

"Hi," Harry said back, pulling a silly face. Louis had started to laugh, but Harry's mouth came down before it could start, covering Louis's and swallowing his laugh. It was sloppy and unrefined. Louis's hands tugged at Harry's hair, dropping his fingers down to press into the back of his neck, and Harry's hands ran up and down Louis's sides before dropping down to grip at Louis's bum. 

That was when Louis started laughing, because of course he did. Harry drew back, eyebrows raised. "You okay?" he'd asked. 

Louis nodded, still giggling. "Yeah, yeah, sorry," he said back.

Harry tilted his head to the side and leaned back in, but Louis couldn't handle it anymore. He sagged back against the iron of the handrail, laughing. He covered his eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Fuck," he'd said through his laughter. "Fuck, I'm so drunk."

"Yeah," Harry said, laughing a little, too. "Let's get you home, yeah?" 

Louis had nodded, shaking his head at himself. "God." He grinned up at Harry, and Harry smiled back, a little smaller than usual. "You gonna crash at mine?"

Harry had shrugged. "Sure, mate. I'll make breakfast in the morning." 

"You're an angel," Louis slurred, leaning into him. 

It was one of those nights that Louis had written off – he's snogged Zayn before. He's even snogged Niall before. All drunken, all ridiculous, all friendly. He'd consciously written it off, because it wasn't different. Harry _wasn't different_. Harry was never different.

Except, of course, for how that was a load of bullshit. 

 

*

 

The house is quiet when Louis wakes up in the morning. The empty bed, the still air, causes a flash of panic to shoot through Louis: _where's Harry_. Then his pounding head and aching body make themselves known and Louis remembers. 

Oh. 

Gingerly, he pushes himself out of bed and pads out of his room, down the stairs, needing tea and something for his head. 

The kettle's on when Louis reaches the kitchen, and Harry's sitting at the counter, reading the paper. He looks up when Louis walks in. "Hey," he says, cautious. 

"Hi," Louis says back, mouth suddenly dry. 

"There's tea." Harry nods to the kettle. 

Louis nods and makes his way over, forcing himself through the thick air of the room. He pours himself a cuppa and stares at it, watches the steam curl through the air. "Harry," he starts. 

Harry shakes his head. "Lou. It's okay. We don't need to talk about it."

Closing his eyes, Louis takes a deep breath. "I think we should, though. Sober." 

The room is silent for a moment, but then Harry nods and folds up the paper. "Okay."

"Okay." Louis nods. The mug is hot in his hands, so he sets it down and wipes his palms on his thighs. "Okay." 

Harry arches an eyebrow. 

"Harry..." Louis starts again. "I love you. You know I do. And... and I think on some level, I always have? I mean, I don't know if that's just me, but–"

"It's not," Harry interjects. 

Louis nods again. "Okay, um. I just. There are so many fucking _concerns_ here. I mean–" he breaks off into a nervous chuckle, "like, the big one is, of course, what the fuck would I do if we break up? If you decide you can't do this? How the fuck would I cope with that?"

Harry opens his mouth to respond, but Louis holds up a hand. 

"And it's not just me, you know? I have two other people to consider, and they're so, so much more important, you know? They're a priority. And they're always going to be _the_ priority." 

Harry's nodding, now. Louis looks back down at his tea. "Plus, like. Shit, Harry. I literally _just_ got out of a marriage. It's kind of fast to, like, jump into anything new." 

Harry's quiet, waiting for Louis to finish. Louis nods at him. 

"I know all of that," Harry says softly. "Louis, come on. I've been right here – literally _right here_ since I met you. I'm not, like, harbouring any delusions about what you can or cannot do. I just. I just want to be with you, I guess. In an official sense. It's not got to do with me, like, needing to _save_ you or me thinking you're weak on your own or whatever. It's just... I just don't want you to ever feel like you're on your own."

Louis hitches in a breath. 

Harry continues, "And I love you. I've always loved you, I think a little more overtly than you've ever loved me." He laughs a little, hollow. Louis tenses. "I don't mean to make it seem like I was waiting for you to be single to, like, pounce, or whatever, I guess I'm just... presenting the option. I'm always an option." 

The tea isn't steaming anymore. Louis lifts it to his lips with shaking hands. 

"And," Harry says, "I love your kids like they're my own. I've loved them since they were born, you can't have ever doubt that. They're your priority, yeah, but god, Lou, they're mine, too. I would never, ever do anything that could hurt them. Or you. I just want us to be _family_ , I guess." 

Head jerking into a nod, Louis raises his eyes to meet Harry's. Harry looks earnest, intent. His fingers are tight around his own mug of tea, body held still. Louis looks away again. He runs his hand through his hair. 

"It's scary," he whispers. 

The stool makes a screeching noise as Harry scoots it back, sliding off it and rounding the counter, stopping when he's just in front of Louis. "Yeah," Harry whispers back. "But, look. I think it'll be worth it. Nothing has to change, if you don't want it to. I just... wanted you to know how I feel. How I've always felt. 

Louis squeezes his eyes shut and turns his body into Harry's, tucking his face into Harry's neck. Harry's big hands start sweeping up and down Louis's back, running over his skin and pulling him in tight. 

Tilting his head back slightly to meet Harry's eyes, Louis licks his lips. Harry's eyes track the movement, and Louis feels his mouth curve up into a small smile. "Okay," he says, barely. "Alright, stud." 

A hesitant grin starts to spread across Harry's red lips and Louis feels his eyes start to crinkle as his own smile spreads. "Okay," Harry says back, ducking down until their lips are just a breath away from each other. 

Louis tilts his head up a little more, putting his weight on his toes, just barely pushing himself taller. Their lips meet and it's soft, gentle, like Louis knew it always would be. Harry's morning-warm and big, enveloping Louis in his long arms and his big heart, lips parting easily to capture Louis's bottom one. 

They kiss for minutes until Louis flashes back to that night at Niall's and feels giggles building up in his chest, once more. He has to pull back and let them out, staying trapped in the circle of Harry's arms, his own hands cupping Harry's cheeks, but he's smiling up at him, laughing. 

Harry's eyebrows raise and a smile comes back to his lips. "Yes?" he asks. 

Louis shakes his head. "No, nothing. I just remembered the first time you grabbed my bum." 

Snorting, Harry drops his left hand to cup Louis's arse and quirks his lips. "Is this always going to be high comedy, Lou? Could put a damper on my plans." 

Still giggling, Louis buries his face in Harry's collarbone and feels Harry's chest shake with his own laughter. "Hey," he says. "We've got all day." 

"Nah," Harry chides gently, leaning back to raise Louis's chin with his finger. "Nah, Lou. We've got forever." 

 

*

 

_I hand you my fate. [...]  
This is our one chance to amaze each other._

anne carson, _the beauty of the husband_


End file.
